


Carbon

by 7PercentSolution



Series: Periodic Tales [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Autistic Sherlock, Case Fic, Chemistry, Gen, Nobel Prize, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-23 18:33:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7475313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carbon<br/>C    6      12.017<br/>Non-metallic and tetravalent, meaning there are four electrons able to bond. Carbon is one of the few elements known since antiquity; its name is derived from the Latin carbo meaning coal. The fourth most abundant element in the universe by mass, it is present in all known life forms and in the human body the second most abundant element (about 18.5%) after oxygen. It is known to form almost ten million different compounds, the largest of any element, and is the basis of organic chemistry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: Keeping to the elemental character of these stories, I can't always promise to be in chronological order, so sometimes I will go back a bit in time. This is one of those occasions. Just think of it as a flashback...

**Part One**

* * *

_Graphite, from the Greek "to write", is the soft allotrope of carbon. Pencils contain graphite mixed with clay to make it harder; pencil marks are bits of graphite that break off and adhere to the paper when pressed._

* * *

Doctor Molhotra's examination of Sherlock was methodical and quick, but he wasn't getting much co-operation. Still, it was better than it used to be, when the ten year old would panic at the sight of him, and he needed the help of two male nurses to restrain him while the examination took place. Now the boy just sat there in his hospital bed with a sullen look on his face. The doctor had some sympathy; he must have known by now that the examination was always done just before an ECT session. Before using the stethoscope on the child's thin chest, the Asian doctor put down his pad and pencil on the bed. He would transfer the statistics to the chart kept at the nurses' station later: pulse, respiration, blood pressure. He'd also draw a blood sample, to make sure that the current lithium blood serum level was right. It was proving hard to get the dose right, not only because the patient was a child, but also because his weight kept fluctuating. They'd had lots of problems over the months with that- sometimes he would eat, and then stop, requiring a gastric tube. Getting the exact dosage right in such circumstances was always tricky, especially now that they were trying to wean him off of it.

Just as he jotted down the latest pulse reading, his pager went off. A quick glance down at the device and he dropped the pad and bolted from the room- a code up on the next floor, one of the teenage patients.

Impassive, Sherlock watched the doctor leave the ward. As soon as the door clicked shut, he picked up the pad and the pencil. He left the top sheet as it was, but pulled a dozen perforated pages out from the back of the pad. If he was lucky, it would be ages before they were missed. Folding them in half, he tucked all but one of the sheets into his book. Left with one clean sheet, he began to draw a grid, seven boxes down and eighteen across. He used the edge of his book to be sure that the lines of his grid were straight. Sherlock looked at the page that the doctor had completed and saw the date, then transferred that date to his sheet and began to fill in the boxes of the grid with the letters he could remember: H, He, Li, Be, B, C, N, O, F, and so on. There were a few gaps, but he reached number 56, and then drew a line from it to a space below his grid, then another table, this time with only two rows and fourteen columns. The second row of this table he linked back to AC, number 89 Actinium.

Sherlock had trouble keeping track of the days, because they all seemed to be so similar here. Now that he had a pencil, he could keep a calendar in his book, so he wrote the date on the blank page at the back. Reading the book last night, he'd memorised the 103 elements*, and he was determined to keep track of what he was forgetting each time they took him away for treatment. The periodic table would be his test.

When Molhotra returned over an hour later, Sherlock heard his footsteps coming down the hall. After all these months, he knew the difference between his stride and that of a nurse. In a flash, he hid the pencil beneath the hospital bed mattress, and slipped the graph in the back of the book, which he shoved back on the bedside cabinet.

When the doctor entered, Sherlock was still sitting there, looking as if he had not moved at all in the interval.  _Still, it's better than when he was first here; then he was virtually catatonic_. The doctor took the blood sample, and then picked up the pad. Now where had his pencil gone? Had he taken it with him? He sighed- probably left it up in the coded patient's room.

oOo

The consulting detective was pacing, his hands were steepled beneath his chin as if in prayer. The office was a typical academic's room- book-lined, with filing cabinets and a large white board on one wall. The board was covered with a mixture of mathematic equations and chemical notations. John watched as the consulting detective walked back and forth between the white board and the door. Occasionally, his hands would come apart and make odd gestures.

The other occupant of the room looked a little concerned. "Is he alright, Doctor Watson?" The man's Russian accent was still detectable beneath his English.

"Yes, Professor Novoselov. This is how he thinks."

The professor tutted. "Please, you are not a student; call me Kostya."

The doctor smiled to reassure the physicist, who seemed entirely too young to be a Nobel Prize winner. The medal had been awarded two years ago, and was the reason why Sherlock was here. The medal had been stolen, and the Manchester police had no clues at all. The University's own security systems were not particularly brilliant. (" _Idiots, John. They seem more concerned about student bicycle theft than they do with the potential for intellectual property crime against one of the finest minds of the twenty first century.")_

It took a lot for Sherlock to be impressed by someone, but he was by Sir Konstantin Novoselov, a physicist who started his career in Russia, moved to Holland to do graduate work and then ended up in Manchester, working alongside his fellow Nobel Prize winner, Professor Andre Geim. On the train up from London, John had been an audience of one for a lecture.

"He's a physicist who is also an Honorary Fellow of the Royal Society of Chemists. Absolutely ground breaking stuff, John. Over ninety peer-reviewed research papers on fascinating subjects, like mesoscopic superconductivity. But unlike an ivory tower academic, he's also capable of seeing the applicability of it all. I read his paper on gecko tape and it was just riveting."

"Gecko tape? What's that? It sounds like some...I don't know, something like that Gorilla Glue you used to fix the shower head at Baker Street."

Sherlock looked down his nose at John. "Really, John, I know medicine is an  _applied_  science, but you really did specialise too early. Gecko tape is synthetic setae, a dry adhesive that first used polyimide fibers stuck to scotch tape. It mimics the unique process that allows a gecko to climb a wall, only it's much, much better at it. It was discovered by Novoselov in 2000; now they've moved on to use carbon nanotubes. It has applications in everything from nanotechnology to joint replacements."

"Is that what he got the Nobel prize for?"

"Oh, no.  _That_  was for something  _really  e_xciting- his work on graphene."

John's face must have betrayed his confusion.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Really, John, when you were in Afghanistan did you just put your brain into cold storage? It's just the most important scientific discovery of the century."

John sighed.  _That's me relegated to the back of the classroom._ "Before starting on another long lecture, Sherlock, please remember we have only ten minutes before arriving at Manchester Piccadilly station."

The brunet narrowed his eyes. "Alright then, one crash course. Graphene is an isolated single isolated atomic plane of graphite. Think of a sheet composed of carbon that is only one atom thick; it's so thin that it is effectively  _two_  dimensional. Its hexagonal crystalline structures make it look like chicken-wire under an electron microscope. It's a superconductor of electricity, and it's the strongest material ever known. It will be the basis of almost all integrated circuits of the future. It can be used in everything from desalination plants to solar cells."

John looked a little sceptical. "That sounds...like a little too good to be true?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Let's just bring it closer to your comfort zone,  _doctor_." He didn't disguise his sarcasm. "Graphene has a molecularly gatable structure, which makes it perfect for microbial detection and diagnosis, so even in general medicine there will be huge benefits. They are already talking about using it to serve as an artificial retina; just think, John, of the consequences for all those blind people out there in the world."

While John was trying to wrap his head around that idea, Sherlock continued. "For me, personally, the great advantage is that it will speed up and reduce the cost of electronic DNA sequencing- the backbone of modern forensics- oh, and that's also likely to help medical professionals beat diseases that have baffled your lot for centuries."

John decided that he was impressed. And looking now at the 38 year old professor who was watching Sherlock pace, the doctor decided that it now mattered more to him that the medal should be recovered.

To buy more time for Sherlock to consult his mind palace, John decided to ask the Professor about the medal. "What is the actual medal like?"

Kostya shrugged. "A lot less exciting than what it means, if you think about it. What a lot of people don't realise is that  _two_ medals are given- one that's solid gold, which the Prize Committee assume you will put in a vault somewhere -and I did do by the way- and then another one that's bronze, which is for public display or actually wearing, if one goes to that sort of event, which I don't." He looked down with a grin at his tee shirt, jeans and trainers.

"In both cases, the medals are only 66 millimeters in diameter- so a bit over two and half inches for you Brits- I know that you don't think in millimeters. Not very thick- each year varies in width depending on the value of gold at the time it is struck. Since 2008, the gold medals are no longer 24 carat gold- it's 18 carat on the inside, just plated with 24 carat. Maybe the thief thought the medal in the cabinet was gold? But if so, it's weird. I mean both my bronze version and the one for Andre Geim were displayed side by side in the cabinet in the faculty senior common room, but they only took mine."

Sherlock stopped in mid-stride and turned to the professor. "You said you think a sheet of your work might have been stolen on the same night. Can you tell me more? What was on it? What did it look like? Can I see it?"

Here the Russian looked embarrassed. "Well, I am not sure that it was stolen. It disappeared that night, but it could have been…misplaced. I'm a little chaotic when I am working on things in draft." He gestured to the wall. "The university installed this smartboard for me, but I really prefer to use paper and pencil. So, the day after the medal was stolen, I realised the last sheet of one of my old projects was gone."

He gave a little laugh. "It's not even very exciting stuff- certainly not worth stealing; it's just an elaboration of something that is already out there in the public domain, so…on second thought, I don't think anyone would actually steal it."

He unlocked his desk drawer and pulled a file out, opened it and handed over some sheets of white foolscap pad pages, with very faint pencil scribbles. Sherlock took the last sheet and laid it on the desk, and then got his pocket magnifier out. He bent over the desk, looked at the writing it for a few seconds and then stood up straight again with a puzzled look on his face.

"Professor, why do you make your own pencils?"

Kastya grinned. "How do you know that? No one has ever realised that before."

"Graphite in pencils is mixed with clay. The carbon composition allows transfer; the clay makes it harder, so it will hold a point.  _This_  writing has been done with a pencil that is harder than a 10H, which is the hardest availble. Is it…what I think it is?"

"You're right. I use a graphene residue, rather than just plain graphite. There is just enough graphene in the graphite mix to give it the hardness needed to be used as pencil lead, so I don't mix it with clay. Call it a conceit of mine."

"Can you find the pencil you used?"

The professor searched the top of his desk, lifting papers, but not finding it. He laughed. "Must have misplaced it- or took it back home. I keep the graphene pencils at home."

"OH!" This was whispered. Sherlock's hands were brought together under his chin as if in prayer. Then decisively, the detective began to explain. "Stealing the medal is a decoy, professor; someone is after your residue. It's not about what you wrote; it's about what you wrote it with- your special pencil! And the thief hoped that in the furore over the theft of the medal you wouldn't notice that the sheet - and the pencil with which you wrote it -was missing. Presumably, your graphene is leftover from your manufacturing process?"

"Yes, but it's not difficult to manufacture graphene anymore, there are dozens of companies that do it commercially now."

"But not the way  _you_  did it."

"Well, I suppose not. I use the residue from my very first experiments in my pencils and that was secret. Does that matter?"

"Oh, yes, indeed; it matters a  _great_ deal."

Now Sherlock started pacing again. "Just three months ago, the EU awarded Professor Jari Kinaret from Sweden's Chalmers University a grant worth €1 billion, am I right?"

"Yes, of course. We're one of the universities involved in the consortium winning the FET funding. There are over 126 projects involved."

"Did you get what you wanted?"

Kostya looked a little sheepish. "Actually, we got more. We were awarded €54 million. It was a bit awkward really as both Andre and I are on the Strategic Advisory Council advising the management team about the fifteen work packages involved."

Sherlock's smile was beginning to blossom. "And who was left out of that research funding?"

The professor tilted his head curiously. "Why does that matter?"

"Oh, it provides  _motive_."

The professor gave it some thought. "Actually, it's the Koreans who were the biggest 'losers' if you put it that way. I mean, it's EU money, so the awarding team tended to have a European bias. The decision was made to exclude companies and organisations that are involved in graphene screen production. I mean, it's pretty much the basic start of manufacturing; the harder research work needed now is in applications. The Koreans are the leading manufacturers, Samsung in particular."

Sherlock's smile was now broad. "I don't suppose you have any graduate students from Korea here, do you?"

"Um, as a matter of fact, we do- Joon Park and Pak Soon, both brilliant graduates of Sungkyunkwan University and involved in our work here."

"Then I suggest that the Manchester Police and your University Security arrest the pair and search their premises very carefully. If we've managed to catch them before they could send the sheet of your notes and the pencil back home, then your secrets will be preserved. No doubt, somewhere in their safe keeping will also be found the medal."

Three hours later, Sherlock smiled again when their train pulled into Euston Station. He showed John the text he'd just received.

**6.12pm You were right! Medal, pencil and work recovered. One of my *pencils* is on its way to you in thanks. Kostya**


	2. Chapter 2

**Part Two**

_Diamond is the most well-known allotrope of carbon. The hardness and high dispersion of light of diamond make it useful for both industrial applications and jewellery. Diamond is the hardest known natural mineral._

* * *

"Are you really sure that you want me to sell it? It seems such a shame after all the time it has been in the family." The solicitor sighed. He looked at the photograph of the diamond tiara on his desk. His wife would have thought that such an exquisite piece of nineteenth century craftsmanship worth a king's ransom. The valuation made in 1969 said that it was worth £20,000; in today's money that was over £325,000. And the history of it, too- French-made but worn at Queen Victoria's diamond jubilee? This was a history that could not be bought. At auction now it would probably sell for a lot more.

Mycroft decided to let a little irritation show. "It was your explanation of the phrase 'asset rich, cash poor' that led me to this decision, Mr Harris. As you so eloquently said ten days ago, if I have expenses that need to be paid, then something needs to be sold."

"Yes, yes- of course, but I was thinking more of something like one of the share portfolios, or some of the financial investments."

"Any of those would probably attract the attention of my father, because he will still have access to my tax returns this year, given the inheritance. I would not welcome the scrutiny about the liquidation of any financial investments at this particular moment."

Mycroft gestured to the photograph. "He has never even known about the extent of my mother's jewellery collection. That particular item's been in the Sherrinford vaults for over thirty years and never been worn; it was made for my great grandmother. There is an auction coming up in the next month at Christie's; I've already instructed them about it and they are awaiting delivery so it can be photographed for their catalogue."

Simon Harris nodded. "Yes, of course. I will arrange to have it sent."

"Mr Harris."

There was something in the firm tone of voice of the young man sitting in front of him that made the solicitor look up sharply. He had first met Mycroft Holmes eight months ago, when he and his mother retained his services. He was so  _not_  from the Holmes' family's London law firm.

He now looked into the cool blue eyes of the eighteen year old across the desk, giving him the attention that he clearly wanted.

"My mother and I instructed you originally to look after my interests when I inherited at her death, and when I turned eighteen six weeks ago. The assets in my mother's will have now been separated from my father's estate. I have no doubt that his law firm and his financial advisers will not have been pleased with that fact, and I am certain that my father is not happy either. I expect absolute confidentiality from you in this matter. Christie's has been instructed to list the item from an anonymous owner."

"I have other business we need to turn to now. Within the week, I would like you to draw up a draft of my own will. In the event of my death, my brother Sherlock is to inherit and he is to have whatever legal protection is possible from my father so long as he is a minor. My will needs to ensure that my father will have no say at all in this."

Simon gave the young man a cautious smile. "You are a little  _young_  to be considering a will, but I agree it is always sensible to be prepared."

Mycroft just ignore him and carried on. He'd clearly thought it all through. "In accordance with her wishes, I will be moving a portion of her inheritance to Sherlock. Trust funds and independent trustees will be needed. Before that happens, to protect his interests, I have need of accessible funds, in part to pay your bills- hence the sale of the tiara. I know for a fact that my mother would approve of selling her diamonds to protect someone who was more important to her than any diamonds- her younger son."

"Given my family situation, it is essential that I help my brother. That is also why I also need to understand if it is possible to get some form of legal responsibility- perhaps guardianship- of my brother, even while my father is still alive. I'd like you to investigate what options are open on that front. It is possible that even after he reaches the age of eighteen he will still be classified as a vulnerable adult requiring guardianship."

The Oxford solicitor had wondered at the mother and son bringing their business to him. It had been on the clear instructions that it was to be kept confidential from Richard Holmes.  _A family dispute, and now a custody battle over a vulnerable child? Ouch, that could be expensive!_

Looking at the firm set of the young man's jaw and his air of utter determination, the solicitor had no doubt that Mycroft Holmes was as hard as the diamonds he was now selling.

0oO

Antoine Maes was sweating and flushed, clearly stressed and anxiously twisting a knotted handkerchief in his hands. John had answered the door and brought the client up, while Sherlock finished one of his experiments and then swept the morning newspaper off the sofa. Now seated on it and supplied with a cup of tea by the doctor, the Belgian was looking like he had no idea where to begin.

Sherlock decided to help. "You've come to London today, but I can tell by the creases in your trousers that it was not on the Eurostar from Brussels. You flew instead. Perhaps the 7.12 departure to City Airport? Mr Maes, your business is clearly too confidential and urgent to trust to a phone conversation or e mail. Start at the beginning, but do try to avoid being boring with the details. Just the facts."

"Please to forgive my English,  _Monsieur_  Holmes. It is not my first or even second language." The words were delivered in a very thick French accent.

Sherlock nodded. "I am fluent in French, but alas my colleague Doctor Watson is not, so just do the best you can, for his sake."

John had opened his laptop to make a few case notes, and he now shot a look at the consulting detective for that comment. He could not compete with the eleven languages that Sherlock managed, and few clients came to Baker Street requiring his working knowledge of Pashto. Still, no need to be insulting.

"Well,  _Monsieur,_ the problem is this." He unknotted the handkerchief and handed over a walnut sized object.

To John's eye, it looked like a piece of glass. Sherlock took the object and walked over to the window, holding it up to the light. "Oh! A blue diamond. Rare, about twenty carats in weight." He pulled the magnifying glass off the table and scrutinised the gem. "Radiant cut- has 77 facets instead of the Brilliant cut's 55 facets." He then looked back at the Belgian.

"I see your problem. How did it come into your possession?"

"That is  _ze_  problem,  _Monsieur_  Holmes. It is most  _extraordinaire_! My wife bit into one of my chocolates and  _voila-_  this was what was inside! She thought it the most romantic birthday present ever. But of course, I had never seen it before. I am a chocolatier by profession. I make the box of chocolates for her especial every year. I know that it was not in the chocolate, because I make each one myself; it is not possible."

John thought it the most bizarre story. How on earth could a diamond that size end up in a piece of candy?

A smile of amusement began to form on the detective's face. "Yes, this could be very awkward for you,  _Monsieur_  Maes. Your chocolate shop is at the Brussels airport?"

" _Oui_ , you understand my dilemma now."

"Of course."

John was confused. "Well, I don't. If something so valuable turned up in one of your chocolates, why didn't you go to the police about it?"

"Of course not! It would be my ruin. They would never believe me. Only last night the shop was broken into, ransacked, chocolates everywhere. I am distraught! The police have been investigating – so suspicious. The whole thing is ..impossible! My reputation will be ruined. I just wish this diamond to be returned to its rightful owner, quietly. Is this something you could do for me?"

Sherlock looked at him speculatively. "Oh, I think I can do  _better_  than that."

John was getting annoyed at being left out. The detective and the chocolate were speaking English, but it still made no sense to him. "A little translation here would be appreciated, Sherlock."

The consulting detective stopped his pacing. "Three days ago, on the 19th of February at 8pm, a gang of eight men dressed as airport security cut a hole in the perimeter fence at Brussels airport, and hijacked a KLM van. They drove it to a Helvetica passenger plane bound for Zurich that was being loaded with cargo- a rather special cargo. Without the passengers even being made aware of it, they proceeded to steal some boxes that had just been loaded into the hold by a Brinks security van. In those parcels were diamonds, worth an estimated £30 million. Six minutes later, they were gone. "

" _Exactement_!  _Ze_   _aeroport_  police went berserk. Searching everywhere. There are over one hundred shops, restaurants, services at the airport, but each was searched thoroughly. I myself was interrogated, even though I was at home at the time. My shop is open until 9pm each night for the late passenger flights, but my assistant was on duty."

The detective steepled his hands under his chin. His eyes glittering like the diamond he had just handed to John. It was enormous, and shockingly blue. The doctor looked up as the brunet started his deductive stream of consciousness. "There can be no doubt that this diamond is part of the stolen consignment. A blue diamond this size is worth somewhere in the region of 5 million euros- a suitable payment for someone willing to give the raiders inside information. It is more convenient than cash, more easily hidden. You trust your assistant?"

"With my life, Monsieur! Our families have known each other for years; we grew up together. No, not in a million years would I suspect Jean."

"Did you leave him on duty today? Phone him now and ask him if a colleague from the Antwerp Diamond & Jewels shop at the airport asked him to make a special box of chocolates. It is possible that he knew he would need a safe hiding place, and used your chocolates for just that. A mix up in the fridge, you grabbed the wrong box on way home, and the mistake becomes evident. I hope your wife didn't break a tooth. Diamonds are very  _hard_  for a centre filling of a chocolate."

The call was made. Rapid fire French ensued. Mr Maes' eyes grew large, than his face angry. When he ended the call and put his phone back in his pocket, he used the handkerchief to mop his face.

"It is as you said,  _Monsieur_  Holmes. The night manager at the Antwerp shop, Dirk Aalbers ordered a special ballotine of truffles to be made. He asked Jean if he could choose them on the night of the 19th; he knew he would have no time tonight when he was on his way home to celebrate his wife's anniversary."

"So,  _Monsieur_  Maes, you have your answer. Aalbers must have slipped the diamond into the middle of the chocolate without your man noticing, and then they were put back into the fridge to be collected the next day. Your wife's box and his must have been mixed up; he was given the wrong one and the rest you know."

Sherlock took the jewel from John and held the diamond to the light of the window again. "I will return this to the rightful owners and advise the Belgian authorities to arrest Mr Aalbers. I believe that I can ensure your assistance can be kept confidential from the authorities- there is no need for publicity."

" _Mon dieu_!  _Merci_ ,  _Monsieur_  Holmes. I can never thank you enough."

When John showed the smiling Belgian down the stairs, the doctor stopped him at the door. "Could I make suggestion, Mister Maes? Perhaps you would like to visit the duty free shop at City Airport and select a nice piece of English jewellery for your wife?"

That brought another beaming smile. "Ah,  _oui_ , Doctor Watson! That is excellent advice!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: the theft is real- took place on Feb 19, 2013 from Brussels airport. This is a nod to ACD canon and the blue carbuncle.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> author's note: this chapter contains suicidal ideation and an attempt. If you are susceptible to triggering on such subjects, do not read.

**Part Three**

_Amorphous Carbon (aC) is free, reactive carbon that does not have any crystalline structure, unlike graphite and diamond. It is the name used for coal, soot, charcoal. Activated carbon (also known as activated charcoal) is processed into powder to increase the number of small, low volume pores, increasing the surface area available for adsorption or chemical reactions. It is the principal method of emergency department medical treatment for particular forms of poisoning._

* * *

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut. The light was bothering him even more than normal. He'd woken up with that awful buzzing, the dull thud of his pulse loud in his ears, the sense that everything in his head felt raw and aching. By now he knew why he felt that way, but it didn't make it any easier to bear. It's whatever happened in the place they took him to, after the mask. At first, he fought when they took him away from the ward, but then they started tying his hands to the metal bars of the bed so they could push the mask onto his face. The horrible scent and the texture of whatever it was they made him breathe made him want to throw up. He'd tried holding his breath, but they just waited until he couldn't hold it any more. Then just as he would start to lose his sense of where he was and what was happening, he'd feel the trolley being moved. But, he'd never managed to stay awake long enough to know where they took him or what they did.

All he knew is what he felt like when he woke up- which was awful. And whatever they did to him made him forget things, important things. He was finding it hard now to remember what Mummy looked like, what her voice sounded like. He had to look at the pencil marks in the back of his book to know what the day was. And each time he tested himself on the periodic table, he found something more wasn't there.

It was a different kind of forgetting. Not like misplacing something, where if he thought hard and long enough, the memory would come back. No-he lost things permanently. That meant starting over again, learning the elements one by one, filling in the missing gaps with stuff he'd forgotten. Lately, it was getting worse. If it had not been for the chart and the empty boxes, he would not even know that he'd forgotten some of the elements. That scared him. Not the kind of little anxiety that Mummy used to talk to him about, that made his hands flap or which he could soothe by rocking. This loss was big, almost as big as losing Mummy. She wasn't coming back, and he was afraid that whatever happened in that room was going to take everything away, so he wouldn't even know what the boxes on the paper were for, or how to start filling them in again.

The doctor came to visit every other day, repeating his silly tests. The man tried to get him to talk, and Sherlock never did. He wouldn't look at him, or even show that he had heard him speak or ask a question.

Because he never spoke, the staff seemed to forget that he could listen and understand what they said. So, he spent a lot of time listening. When the night nurse came back, Sherlock heard the temporary one telling the other one what had happened while she was away. She told the older woman how one of the teenage patients on the floor above had killed himself by taking all of his pills at once. He'd hidden them, fooled the nurses into thinking that he'd taken them when instead he hid them away.

Before he heard the two women talking, it had never occurred to Sherlock to do that, to hide the pills. So, he tried it the next day. And it worked. The nurse always made him open his mouth to show he had swallowed it, but this time he hadn't. She didn't realise that he had put the tablet into the place between his lip and teeth. As soon as she was gone, he took it out of his mouth, dried it on the sheet and put it into a little tube he made out of one the sheets of paper he'd stolen. He stuffed the tube into the space formed by the spinal binding of his book. When he'd been to the room again, and he forgot about the pills, he found them when he opened the book, and remembered why he was collecting them.

The book was his lifeline now. He stopped letting the nurses read to him from it. He just kept the book in his hands when they were near, and wouldn't let them take it. They stopped trying, which was good because then they wouldn't find the tablets, his pencil marks for dates and the loose sheets with his attempts to complete the periodic table.

That afternoon, when he woke up and realised that he'd been to the room again, Sherlock decided that he had to find out how much he'd forgotten. In the quiet period after the evening meal, he opened the book and kept it tilted up on his knees, so that a nurse would only see that he was reading. He opened it to the pages where he had inserted the loose sheets with his previous attempts at completing the grid. There was only one blank grid left. He hid his hand with the pencil behind the book so a nurse wouldn't see what he was doing. He filled in the boxes he could remember, and then counted- 34 of the 103 boxes had letters and numbers; the rest were blank.

Sherlock went back through each of the earlier grids. Three weeks ago, he'd managed 58. Six weeks ago, it was 72. The first grid had 89. He knew what it meant. He couldn't re-learn fast enough to keep up with whatever was being taken out of his memory by the trips to that room. He couldn't pretend it was going to get better. The doctor who smiled at him and said "you're getting better" was  _lying_.

When the lights were dimmed, and the rest of the ward patients started to go to sleep, Sherlock pulled his book under the sheet and took out the tube. He counted the tablets- seventeen of them. Would it be enough? He didn't know. He hoped so.

He started to chew. The first two tasted revolting- so bitter. They made him want to choke so he just swallowed and tried not to cough. He chomped up three more and then reached for the plastic cup of water on his bedside cabinet. Using the water to push the bits down his throat helped. But, he didn't have enough water. He'd finished only ten before the cup was empty. Dare he ask the nurse for more? He'd never done that before, they might ask why, and he would not be able to answer. _Where else can I get water?_

He stuffed the tube with the seven remaining tablets into his pants, and banged the bars of his bed. That got the nurse's attention and she came over from her chair at the end of the ward.

"What is it, Sherlock? Are you alright?"

He gestured to the front of his pyjamas and then down the corridor to the bathroom. It was the signal he'd used to indicate that he needed to go to the toilet. She lowered the bars on one side of the bed and he got down, putting his dressing gown on. She knew better than to touch him, but followed him to the loo. When they got there, he didn't go to the urinal, but rather into one of the stalls, and shut the door. He looked at the water in the toilet bowl, fumbled with the tube and stuffed all seven of the pills into his mouth, chewing them up into smaller bits, fighting against the bitterness that made him want to gag. He reached down with a hand into the bowl, and scooped up some water into his mouth, trying to muffle the sound as best he could.

Ninety minutes later, the ambulance came and took a critically-ill ten year old boy to the Emergency Department of Bethlem Royal Hospital.

"Tricyclic antidepressant overdose- that's what the doctors at the clinic think; the patient didn't have access to anything else. Tachycardic, confusion, agitation and hallucinations. He had a seizure in the rig. He's in respiratory distress."

"Any vomiting?" The ED team's senior doctor asked quietly as the still form of the thin boy was transferred to the table in the trauma room.

"Nothing reported."

The doctor frowned at the heart monitor. The boy's oxygen levels were too low, his breathing too erratic.

"Intubate." And then another tube went down, this one into his stomach. "How long ago did the symptoms first appear?"

"According to the ward nurse there, he must have ingested the tablets at about 8pm, when he went to the loo."

"OK, too late for gastric lavage, but we're just within the window for activated charcoal and IV sodium bicarbonate. Let's move, people."

It took them a while, but the black liquid did its job. The symptoms eased a bit, and the boy's heart function stabilised long enough to move him to the ICU. A doctor from the clinic arrived not long afterwards to check on the patient; Doctor Molhotra said that the clinic had tried to contact the boy's father, but been told that he was overseas on a business trip and the housekeeper did not have a contact number. She would try to get it in the morning, when Mr Holmes' business office opened at 9. Dr Molhotra asked to be kept informed about the boy's progress, and went back to the clinic.

Overnight, the ICU staff kept a watchful eye on Sherlock's blood pressure, temperature, arterial PH; he remained intubated, and on IV fluids. The ECG monitor was watched at regular intervals for any abnormal rhthyms. The next morning at 7:12, the boy briefly recovered consciousness but would not speak or show any signs of understanding what was being said to him, so a specialist was called to the ICU for a consult. The junior doctor presented the case and handed the new patient's chart to the petite, dark-haired doctor.

She read the first line on the chart, and shot a startled look at the still figure in the bed.

"Bloody hell."

She reached for the phone on the wall, and got the hospital switchboard. "I need to make a call to Oxford University. Can you find a number, and get someone in authority at Balliol College to find Mycroft Holmes immediately and get him to call me here at the ICU. It's about a patient that has just been admitted. As quick as you can, please."

oOo

Sherlock paced as he explained, hands gesturing and making strange shapes as he spoke. "This is murder, Lestrade, not suicide."

John's verdict was strychnine poisoning, based on his initial examination of the body, but he didn't have a view about how it had happened; he left that to Sherlock.

"Holmes, don't be an idiot. She's lying in her bed, a vial of the poison beside her and a typewritten note underneath it that says she can't face the cancer. What more do you need?" Anderson's face was red and angry. Before Sherlock arrived, he'd pronounced on the death, saying it was suicide. The grieving widower was at the next door neighbour's house, being comforted by a sixty year old lady who was a friend; they'd spent the afternoon on a gardening club visit, only finding his dead wife when he returned at dusk.

The consulting detective just scowled at the Crime Scene Examiner. "Don't…just don't be such a simpleton, Anderson. It's clear that this is exactly what the husband wants you to think, and like some lemming, you leap off the deductive cliff in sheer stupidity."

The forensic officer came up to Sherlock, leaned into his personal space, and just let rip. "For God's sake, Holmes, why do you have to complicate everything? She's an elderly woman diagnosed with a terminal cancer. Rather than face a long slow death, she opted for a quick exit to spare herself and her husband. We found the box of mole poison in the garden shed. She picks a time when he's out for the afternoon with the gardening club. For once in your life, just accept that not every crime needs someone as compulsively fixated as you are to solve it. You can't deny the evidence."

Sherlock drew in a deep breath and was about to let fly when Lestrade stepped in between the two men, as if he were a referee in a boxing match. "Alright you two, just back into your respective corners." He watched as Anderson stepped away, muttering in disgust.

"Sherlock, you have to admit, this looks like an open and shut case of suicide." The Met detective inspector's disbelief was tangible.

"Exactly! That's the point; it's manufactured so idiots like you all will draw the obvious conclusion and not look any further. This was  _planned_  well in advance. The husband bought two identical tea pots with matching mugs, so that the one in the kitchen will test clean. If you look carefully- either in the rubbish or maybe buried in the compost bin- you'll find the broken bits of china, which will test positive for the poison. He infused the herbal tea, laced it with strychnine. Then set up the camera to film the 'tea party' for the benefit of their daughter in Toronto, to whom he sends the video. He has his alibi, they drink the tea, and all seems well in the world."

The brunet was now pacing again. "He sends the wife upstairs to rest, and then the symptoms emerge. Strychnine takes ten to twenty minutes after exposure to start taking effect- the muscles in the neck start to spasm, then the contractions spread to the rest of the body. She goes into almost continuous convulsions, and then she gets lactic acidosis, the respiratory system is paralysed and she dies of asphyxiation. It's a horrible death, takes two to three hours in total- which gives the husband all the time he needs to dispose of the evidence, and then go next door to be seen with his neighbour at the time of the actual death. When he finds her dead, the husband puts the note and the bottle there and calls the doctor."

Lestrade crossed his arms. "Sherlock, we have the video- there are  _two_  of them drinking the tea- so how come he doesn't succumb?"

"John, look in the conservatory. Bring me the box of activated charcoal that is sitting alongside the aquarium. It's been hidden in plain sight, because the husband knows that forensic people are too thick to think beyond the obvious."

The doctor looked dubious, but left the living room and headed for the conservatory.

"Lestrade, the husband is the killer. In a matter of hours, he will excrete the neutralised poison. He will have consumed a drink of activated charcoal probably laced with sorbitol so the poison would be adsorbed and then excreted faster, to minimise its effects. The charcoal protects the whole of the GI tract, so that the poison is never ingested. It's the perfect alibi, and designed to fool people who look without understanding the evidence."

John returned with the box of aquarium charcoal. Sherlock tipped it out onto the table- a fine power spilled onto the white tablecloth. "Look, and this time  _see_ \- aquarium charcoal is normally small lumps, designed to remove impurities from the recirculated oxygen. This is medicinal grade activated charcoal used in Emergency Departments. Anderson, as you clearly do not believe me, go bring Mr Trevelyan here. John, another treasure hunt for you- next to the aquarium you will find a toothbrush that has been blackened- and in the bathroom upstairs will be a new toothbrush next to an old one used by his wife."

John was used to being ordered about like this by Sherlock. While it still annoyed him at times, the consulting detective's peremptory tone made Anderson bristle. "Really, Detective Inspector, being ordered about like some lackey by Holmes is just not acceptable."

Lestrade looked at the Forensic Officer. "Yeah, well, if he didn't have such a record of being right almost all the time, I might agree, Anderson. Do me a favour, and just go get the guy, will you?"

John returned carrying two toothbrushes just as Mr Trevelyan and Anderson came into the room.

Sherlock held up the blackened toothbrush in front of the pensioner. "Mr Trevelyan. Would you care to explain how in 1831 Professor Touery managed to astonish his colleagues at the French Academy of Medicine, when he drank a lethal dose of strychnine and lived to tell the tale?"

The old man looked confused. "I don't understand."

"Then please let Doctor Watson take a good look inside your mouth. No matter how well you brushed your teeth, there will still be stains from the activated charcoal you used to protect yourself when you drank the same tea that killed your wife. So, open wide…"

The old man looked at the faces of the other men in the room, and then his shoulders crumpled in defeat. He opened his mouth to expose his blackened teeth. Trevelyan then confessed to killing her.

"I put her out of her misery. I could not face the prospect of watching my wife decline into such a horrible death. I wanted to ease her suffering."

"Oh, I don't think that explanation will wash with a jury, do you Mr Tevelyan? Especially after the prosecution proves that you've been having an affair for years with your neighbour. You couldn't stand the idea of your wife's nursing care eating up your limited resources, so you poisoned her. Once you get life insurance pay-out, you and your neighbour are off together to sunnier climes." The consulting detective pointed to the pile of world cruise brochures on the coffee table.

Anderson was still scowling as the pensioner was taken away. Sherlock looked smug. "John, there are some poisons that charcoal cannot purify; greed and lust are two of them."

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: * In 1989, which is when Sherlock was in the clinic, there were only 103 elements discovered. Since then another 20 have been added to the Periodic Table. Graphene is real, as are Professors Novoselov and Geim, both 2010 Nobel Prize winners. The €1 billion funding is real, too; the European Commission committed to support major scientific initiatives on Graphene over a period of 10 years- under the Future and Emerging Technologies (FET) Flagship Projects. If you think silicon stimulated the growth of computing and mobile telephony, wait until you see what graphene is going to do!


End file.
